I recently met a former colleague for lunch in cat-hair covered sweatpants and a fleece hat. Granted I had walked about 3 miles, in January in Baltimore, to meet him BUT this time last year I would not have been caught dead outside my house in that hideous get up.

Additionally, while I feel extremely fortunate I was able to quit my job and stay home all day with Mac, our budget still required some trimming. One of the first items to get the axe was my $200/month hair color, cut, and blowout. About this time last year I started the arduous process of growing in my natural hair color. Imagine my surprise when I realized there was a large gray streak emerging from the right temple. I don’t exactly mind the streak. I find it kinda’ quirky. . .at least so far.

I’m left to my own devices for all aesthetic services now. Eyebrow plucking, hair trimming, manicures. . .I can handle most of it if I have the time.

About a week ago, my Husband watched Mac in the evening so I could take a decent shower and paint my toenails. . .And that’s when I discovered the most grizzly of discoveries in my rather unkept bikini line: GRAY HAIR!!!! I’m not talking about a gray hair. It looked like a damned AARP convention down there.

Now for some strange reason, the gray stripe on my head doesn’t bother me but the gray hairs sprouting out of my nether regions made me bonkers. What the hell? How could this be happening? Rather illogically, I wasn’t expecting gray hair anywhere else for at least another two decades.

I figured I could perhaps remedy the situation with the assistance of a razor and some Bacardi. First of all, it’s a little difficult to have a decent view of that area thanks to a sizeable and vile pock-marked mound of post-pregnancy flesh that has settled directly above it. Second of all, it was night-time and I was using our basement shower which doesn’t exactly have the lighting of a surgical suite. Third, see also, Bacardi.

I thought I had carefully addressed the situation. However, I quickly realized my targeting of the gray areas left things a little um lopsided. It was a fucking crooked butchered mess. And as much of a slob as I’ve become, I really don’t want to be running around with half groomed lady bits. Jesus, what if I’m in an accident?! Emergency Responders might tag me as the vaginally asymmetrical Jane Doe!

You can see where this is going, right? The situation was dire. It had to be corrected. And we all know you can’t put cut hair back. So that is exactly why I now have the hairline of a 60-year-old and the bikini line of a six-year-old.